


The Price of Silver

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode Related, Sexual Assault, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-21
Updated: 2006-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An out-of-control House exacts a horrible revenge after learning of Wilson's actions in "Merry Little Christmas."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Silver

**Author's Note:**

> This can be considered an alternate-ending version of "Merry Little Christmas." It contains distinct echoes of [](http://daasgrrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**daasgrrl**](http://daasgrrl.livejournal.com/)'s terrific story, [Rough Justice](http://daasgrrl.livejournal.com/35148.html).

_**Housefic: The Price of Silver (NC-17)**_  
 **STATUS:** Unpublished.  
 **TITLE:** The Price of Silver  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House/Wilson  
 **RATING:** A **HARD** NC-17, for extremely mature themes.  
 **WARNINGS:** Yes. This is a dark, ugly story about a dark, ugly subject. If you are sensitive to fics involving sexual violation, you do not want to read this. I am very serious.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes; for the Tritter Arc up to and including "Merry Little Christmas."  
 **SUMMARY:** An out-of-control House exacts a horrible revenge after learning of Wilson's actions in "Merry Little Christmas."  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** This can be considered an alternate-ending version of "Merry Little Christmas." It contains distinct echoes of [](http://daasgrrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**daasgrrl**](http://daasgrrl.livejournal.com/) 's terrific story, [Rough Justice](http://daasgrrl.livejournal.com/35148.html).  
 **BETA:** No.

  
 **The Price of Silver**

  
When Wilson gets no answer to his phone calls or pages, he drives over to House's apartment, gut churning with anxiety and fear.

His knocks on the door bring no response, so he lets himself in with his key ( _thank God I kept it,_ he can't help thinking), and calls out.

"House? You okay? I called three times!"

There's a mostly-empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table, the amber liquid reflecting gold in the dim light of the den. The room is quiet; Steve McQueen is the only occupant.

Wilson turns slowly around.

 _God damn it, House, where are you?_

He's not at the piano, not in the kitchen.

Wilson breathes a sigh of relief when he finds him in the bedroom, stretched out on top of the covers, arms crossed behind his head on the pillow.

The two men stare at each other; House is the first to speak.

"You've come to the wrong place, Jimmy," he says. "Can't spend those thirty pieces of silver here."

Wilson winces. House's voice is flat and inflectionless, and his eyes don't move from Wilson's face.

"You left me no alternative." Wilson is using his Cancer Voice, the one he employs to impress upon reluctant patients the seriousness of their situation. "You were out of control. You abused Cuddy. You hit Chase. You would have _crippled_ a patient."

It's warm in the bedroom; he shrugs out of his overcoat, and, after a moment, his suit jacket, laying them carefully on the foot of the bed.

House watches him. "So you took the decision out of my hands," he says finally.

Wilson tilts his head back and finds something interesting to stare at on the ceiling; looking at House again, he crosses the room until he's standing beside the bed.

"It was for you. You know I did it for you."

In a swift, smooth movement, House swings his legs off the bed and brushes past him.

"Actually, I don't know that at all."

Wilson stands by the bed, shaking his head.

"Okay," he says. "Fine. I'll grant you --"

The unexpected force of the violent shove to his back is more than enough to send him face-down on the bed, where he lies for a moment, stunned.

"Damn it, House, I know you're angry, but come on."

When he sees House's hand reaching for his right arm, he assumes House is going to help him up, so he gives him his hand.

Instead there's the sudden, heavy weight of a knee on his back, pressing him harder into the mattress, and instead of helping him up, there's a soft _click_ as House fastens something cold around his right wrist.

The balance of weight shifts slightly as House leans over, stretching Wilson's right arm out, and closes the other end of the handcuff around one of the headboard slats.

Wilson stares. It's all happened very quickly; he gives an experimental tug to the cuff, believing that somehow it's not real, that this is a plastic kid's toy House has bought in a five-and-dime.

The gleaming steel is mesmerizing.

 _Where the hell did House get a pair of handcuffs?_ he thinks numbly.

The weight is off his back as House stands up. Wilson tries to, but the chain on the cuffs is much too short. He's caught in an awkward position; from mid-thigh up, he's on the bed, but his legs are sticking out, with his toes resting on the floor.

"House?"

No answer, so Wilson clears his throat a little and tries again.

"House, what's going on?"

Something hard touches his right shoulder and traces a path down over his ribs. Wilson is startled to realize it's House's cane, and he instinctively starts to raise himself on his left elbow to see what House is doing.

Instantly the weight is back. House's knee is in the small of his back and he's leaning down. Wilson grunts as the breath is driven out of him.

House's voice is in his ear, soft and contemplative. The smell of scotch is very strong, as is something else -- bitter and medicinal.

"What do _you_ think's going on? What's the view from Traitorland? Or should I say Tritterland?"

Wilson manages to turn his head just enough to speak.

"Christ, House, what are you on? What have you taken?"

At this House laughs. It's a low, harsh sound, without humor.

"Control," he says. "I've taken control."

House raises himself on his knees and slips both hands under Wilson's waist. For a moment it tickles, then Wilson realizes House is working at unbuckling his belt.

A nameless fear arises, and he bucks, trying to throw House off. It's useless; House simply sits back down and clamps hold tighter.

 _His leg doesn't hurt,_ Wilson suddenly understands. _He's higher than a kite and feeling no pain._

Wilson, however, _is_ , as House's hands leave his stomach and take his left wrist in a vise grip, twisting his arm behind his back and forcing it up towards his shoulder blades. He squeezes his eyes shut. Hissing at the searing pain, he pulls hard at the steel cuff but there's no give there.

House's voice again, hot breath on the back of his neck.

"Don't try that again," he says. "Do not fight me. I am going to hurt you because you are a Judas goat and therefore worthy of hurt, but if you struggle I will hurt you even more, and breaking your arm will be just the beginning."

To emphasize his point, he ratchets up the pressure just a bit. Wilson gasps.

"Do you understand me?"

Wilson is straining for breath but he nods.

The pressure increases again, and bone and sinew pushed beyond endurance cry out. So does Wilson.

"Not good enough. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Wilson whimpers. He knows tears are tracing wet streaks down his face but he can't stop them.

"Good," House murmers. "It's good that you understand. Now I'm going to go back to what I was doing."

His wrist is suddenly released, and the relief is almost as painful as the pressure before it. Wilson buries his face in the quilt, taking deep breaths. He leaves his arm where it is, behind his back; it hurts too much to try and move.

House's hands are under his waist again, and he feels his belt slip through the pants loops. In another moment his pants are unbuttoned, and the zipper undone.

The weight shifts off his back again, and he knows House has stood up. He feels his pants being tugged off, and can tell when they fall in a puddle around his ankles.

House's fingers are on his boxers.

"No," Wilson whispers. "House --"

There's no answer, and his boxers join his pants at his ankles.

A drawer opens and closes; something lands on the bed with a thump. Wilson looks beside him. It's a small, square plastic jar, like a Vaseline jar. He squints, trying to read the label. It's not Vaseline. It's KY Jelly.

The sound of House pulling down the zipper of his jeans is very loud.

Wilson's mouth is very dry. "No," he says again. "Christ, _House_ \--"

He twists his head to look around; House is next to the bed, his hands working at his crotch.

"Eyes front, Jimmy," he says. "Otherwise it's a blindfold."

Wilson looks away. His breathing is quickening, his muscles tightening; he recognizes the autonomic fight-or-flight response.

He tries again. "House. Let me up. Whatever you've taken -- it's triggering a psychotic episode."

House's only response is to nudge his feet a little further apart.

"House --"

Something cool and slick is slathered over his ass, and Wilson tries to flinch away, but House grabs his left wrist and pulls, hard.

There's a terrible _snap!_ , and Wilson screams.

"Candyass," House mutters.

Wilson is sobbing into the quilt. "House, please don't do this," he chokes out. "Please."

A greased finger explores his balls and perineum, traces a path upward into the cleft of his buttocks.

"Don't beg," House says. "Besides, you might like it."

"I'm not gay!"

"Just because you have sex doesn't mean you're gay."

"This isn't having sex!" Wilson's breath hitches as one finger, and then another, ease into his rectum. "This is rape."

There's a short silence.

"Well, you should certainly know all about that," House says, and then it's not fingers inside him anymore, but House's cock.

It's unlike anything Wilson has experienced before; hot, burning, and it fills him up and rips him apart from the inside out. The pain is exquisite, every sensitive nerve ending screaming as the delicate rectal tissue is abraded and torn.

House pulls almost all the way out, and that hurts, and then shoves back in, and that hurts even more.

 _"No, no, oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God --"_ His right wrist is bloody from trying to break free of the handcuff and his right shoulder feels like it's being wrested from its socket and his left arm is on fire and doesn't feel like it belongs to him anymore and Wilson is crying, the great gulping breaths a small child makes.

House makes a grunting noise and takes hold of Wilson's hips, steadying him and pulling him closer as his thrusts increase in speed and strength.

Wilson is moaning; the fingers of his right hand curl around the handcuff chain and he holds it tight.

House slams into him again and again; Wilson feels himself grow wet but knows it's not from House's pre-ejaculate.

After what seems an eternity, House shudders to a stop. There's a horrible _pumping_ sensation inside Wilson, and the strange feeling of House's cock softening and deflating like a tired balloon.

Wilson is still crying, silently, when House pulls out.

"Guess this _was_ the first time," he observes. His voice is distant and detached, and Wilson hears him limp off towards the bathroom.

There's the sound of a faucet handle turning, running water for a while, then quiet. When House returns Wilson looks at him once, then turns his head away.

House fishes something out of his jeans pocket and tosses it on the bed. It lands next to Wilson's head, but Wilson shuts his eyes.

He hears the front door open and close, and the startup roar of House's motorcycle.

After a while Wilson's quiet sobs slow, and finally stop. He aches all over, and he wonders dully how badly his arm is broken. He rubs his face a little on the quilt to dry his tears, and sees what House has thrown him.

It's a tiny silver key.

A handcuffs key.

  
~ fin

  



End file.
